~Grace~
The solution they have given is for me to quickly find a husband to marry. This way, I won't be without a mate, and they can find a way to navigate the rogue attack and the emotional impact of losing a child thing.
But with me having nothing to offer, it's impossible to find a husband, even though I am more than willing to pay for a contract marriage. We would go our separate ways after a year or two. My reputation as an ill-fated, wolfless Omega won't even bag me that much. It is difficult for me to marry at all, let alone find someone to act as a fated mate.
Uncle Mark's calloused hands rest on my shoulders, his wrinkled face looking even older as he sighs, "Marriage is a lifelong affair. We can't just hastily find someone to perform the ceremony. Otherwise, you will be the one suffering in the future."
Hearing this, my aunt feels even more sorrowful for me. "She has suffered enough. We can't sign her up for a lifetime of suffering."
Just as she is about to wipe my tears—tears that are falling joyfully because I have someone, people for that matter, worrying about my long-term happiness—my aunt suddenly thinks of something. She pauses and looks at me, and then at Sucre, whose face is buried deep in the food he is eating.
"Is he married?" she whispers to my face. As soon as she speaks, she answers her own question, "He probably isn't. He said earlier that he fled from the north, and he doesn't know if his family is alive or dead."
I remain stunned for a good while. There's no way I am going to marry that psychopath. We are obviously not going to make a good couple. Never. It's either he kills me or I kill him before he does.
Seeing no response from me, my aunt makes her intentions clearer, "He's injured. He probably won't be able to walk on his own feet again and has nowhere to go. I even let him stay here for free since he arrived with such severe injuries. I'm grateful he decided to pay by saving you from death. How about… I help you ask that young man what he thinks?"
Perhaps because she has already thought of matchmaking, the more she looks at me, the more she feels that he and I are a good match.
I barely know anything about this man, but from the little mental volatility I've witnessed, I'm not going to risk my happiness on him.
He knows just as little about me as well. Come to think of it, to ask him if he is willing to marry me when he is seriously injured, broke, and has nowhere to go feels somewhat like taking advantage of his gratitude and his difficult situation. I'm not that kind of person.
I look around and he is gone. Thankfully, because I am not ready in any way to talk to him about marriage. He probably didn't hear anything since my aunt was mostly mouthing the words.
I truly don't want to go through another troublesome relationship like the one with Leo, but I truly have no other choice at the moment.
After much thought, I feel that maybe I should discuss it with Sucre and ask if he is willing to be my contract Mate. All in pretense, obviously.
I only need to keep my head on my neck. After he recovers completely, he can stay or leave as he wishes.
I spend the entire afternoon preparing what I want to say to him. In the evening, I specially stir-fry two small dishes for him. However, when I call out several times outside his door, there is no response from inside.
Worried that something might have happened, I push the door open directly, only to find him lying on the bed with an unnaturally flushed face, looking dazed.
I hurriedly check his pulse and follow the healer's prescription on the medicine to feed him when his pulse is fading.
I decoct it and make him drink it. Soon after, he breaks out in a sweat.
However, when I am wiping his sweat and changing his bandages, I notice that his wounds seem to have reopened, with quite a bit of blood staining the gauze, which I find strange. He seemed fine earlier.
When Sucre wakes up again, it is already deep in the night.
He props himself up to a half-sitting position and is about to pour himself a cup of water when the sound of the cup wakes me up.
His fever has subsided, and his head is no longer dizzy, but he says his throat is painfully dry. It is only logical that he is also hungry, so I heat up the food I made him earlier and serve him on a tray.
He thanks me in a hoarse voice. But as soon as the food enters his mouth, his expression becomes strange.
He silently swallows that mouthful and asks, "Did you make this?"
I nod, "Yes, why?"
Although it is my first time making any dish, I followed the exact recipe my aunt gave me.
Sucre holds the bowl but doesn't eat anymore. He says, "Nothing... You are just bad at a lot of things, and it's fine. Actually—"
I am still urging him, because there is no way my hours of effort will go in vain. How can I even start a conversation about marriage if he won't eat? "You should finish it while it's hot. I tasted it myself and it wasn't bad. It's good for your health. It's called medicinal food for a reason," I lie.
"… It's a bit hot; I'll eat it later."
That sounds better than a 'no.'
I pull over a chair and sit down: "I don't think I've told you my name yet. My is Grace. Grace Cooper, not Wildbluebell."
"I know. I chose to call you that."
"Oh."
I feel a bit embarrassed trying to force a conversation, but thinking of my purpose, I have to continue asking, "So while you were asleep, I drafted a contract that would favor both of us. We are going to get married for a year. That way, I will look after you until you make a full recovery, and I myself will be able to live freely again."
He frowns impatiently. I tilt my head slightly, staring at him with wide eyes.
He unfolds the contract and, upon reading its contents, his expression immediately turns ugly, followed by a cold, mocking smile at the corner of his mouth.
The contract is thrown into the charcoal brazier in the corner of the room, quickly turning to ashes.